


All Along, You Were Blooming

by waterofthemoon



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Body insecurity, Conventions, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, Fluff, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), One Shot, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Romance, Sharing a Bed, Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27422887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterofthemoon/pseuds/waterofthemoon
Summary: Crowley has a convention to go to and invites Aziraphale to tag along. There are plants, revenge, and Crowley's human friends to deal with, and that's not even the most awkward part.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 102
Collections: Ineffable Wives Exchange 2020





	All Along, You Were Blooming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Euterpein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euterpein/gifts).



> This is my very late gift for @Euterpein for the Ineffable Wives Exchange! Her prompts were plants, snake Crowley, and cuddles/intimacy. It got a lot longer than I anticipated but was so much fun to write - I hope you enjoy it! 💖 Thanks so much to @leilakalomi for the fantastic beta!

"So, uh," Crowley says. _Don't fuck this up, don't fuck this up, don't fuck this up_ , she chants to herself. "There's this convention… thing next weekend. It's stupid, I wasn't even going to go, but there's this guy who's just really awful—he could _really_ stand to spend some time Downstairs before his time, but that's not happening. So he's going, which means I have to go, because no one else is brave enough to stand up to him. Honestly, angel, it's a wonder they get anything to thrive."

She shuts her mouth when she realizes she's been talking for a while and hasn't even gotten to the question yet. Aziraphale was starting to look a little glazed over, but she snaps back to attention.

"Sorry," Aziraphale says. There's a little furrow in her brow that Crowley wants to kiss. That's nothing new, though, so she ignores the impulse. "Did you say what sort of convention this is?"

"Plants." Crowley swings one leg over the other, then back again, then sits up, dislodging the musty blankets on Aziraphale's sofa. "It's for plants. Y'know, like… people sell their plants if they're into that, and there's classes going on or whatever—how should I know, I don't need a class to tell me when they're underperforming—and sometimes, if you get lucky and your mortal enemy is going to be in the same place you are, you can show him up so people stop taking his terrible advice on the internet."

Aziraphale pouts. "I thought _I_ was your Enemy."

"I said _mortal_ enemy," Crowley says, rolling her eyes. "Anyway, 's not important, just… a thing that's happening. I'll be out of pocket next weekend—should have started with that."

"Well, it sounds like a jolly good time," Aziraphale says. "Straight up your alleyway." Crowley has no idea how Aziraphale manages to take the vernacular and twist it so that every misaligned idiom becomes laced with innuendo; it's either a hidden talent, or Aziraphale is even more of a bastard than Crowley fathomed.

Crowley feels her mouth twist. "Yeah, you'd think. But I—"

She doesn't have the words to ask for what she wants. She's not used to being the one to do the _asking_ —that's Aziraphale's department, isn't it? But here she is, wanting to ask for something, and she just feels stupid about it.

"It's not that jolly," Crowley says at last. She rests her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, and she looks over Aziraphale's shoulder instead of directly into her eyes. "Yeah, the plants are cool, but a lot of the people are awfully dull and finicky about you touching their stock—honestly, I was only _looking_ , she had no right—anyway, and I'm always alone, so. Not that good of a time."

When she chances a glance at Aziraphale, she looks thoughtful. Intrigued, and like she might not resign Crowley to her fate after all.

"Would you say that you might be bored at this event of yours?" Aziraphale asks. "That it might be so dull, in fact, that you might be inclined to liven things up with a bit of… intervention?"

A breath of hope catches in Crowley's throat and lodges there. "Come to think of it, I might, yeah. Especially where this guy I told you about is concerned."

"Well, then," Aziraphale says. Crowley watches a series of complicated emotions flit across her face before Aziraphale manages to get them under control. "It just so happens that _I've_ got an event next month. A rare book convention. You know, the poor dears in my trade—I can't help but want to bless them. _Particularly_ old Mrs. Birtwistle." Aziraphale smiles. "One hopes that such a misguided and frankly unpleasant soul may yet be steered towards the light."

Crowley leans in, and this time, she makes sure to catch Aziraphale's eyes full on. Even in the low light of the bookshop, they're sparkling. "Angel," she says, "you've got yourself a deal."

*

The convention's in Surrey, so Crowley's booked a hotel for the weekend to avoid the commute. It's only when they get there that she realizes she's forgotten to change the reservation.

"Shit, shit, shit!" she curses to herself. Aziraphale looks concerned, but Crowley ignores that for the moment. "Excuse me!" she calls out to the desk clerk as she stalks across the lobby, Aziraphale and Aziraphale's suitcases in tow. "Yeah. Hi. Got a room, name of Crowley. Any chance of switching that to a double?"

The clerk gestures at the crowded lobby. "'Fraid not," she says. "Hotel's booked up." She taps on her computer; Crowley considers exerting a little demonic influence, but she can tell from the clerk's implacable expression that it won't be worth the effort. "Your room's ready, though. King suite, top floor. Very posh—why'd you want to change it?"

"None of your business," Crowley says, snatching up the keys from the desk and booking it for the elevator.

Behind her, she hears Aziraphale call out, "Thanks very much," followed by Aziraphale's hurried footsteps, her sensible heels clacking on the marbled tile floor. Crowley holds the elevator for her, but not for the group of three trying to get on after her.

"Crowley," Aziraphale ventures once they're alone. "Is everything all right? You seem a bit stressed."

"What, me, stressed?" Crowley laughs, a little hysterically, and tries to pull herself together. "It's nothing, it's—ugh. You'll see in a minute."

As she opens the door to their room, she braces herself for Aziraphale's reaction. When it doesn't come, she turns around to see Aziraphale standing in the doorway, stock still, hands loose around her suitcase handles.

"Angel, I—"

"You'll take the bed, of course," Aziraphale says in a brisk tone, the one she uses when she wants to make a show of everything being all right so that they can get on with things. It's the most English thing about her, and Crowley hates it, inasmuch as she can hate anything about Aziraphale.

She bustles into the room and rests her suitcases against the wall. Crowley doesn't even know why she has two bags for a weekend trip, but knowing Aziraphale, there's a strong chance that at least one of them is full of books. "You know I've never really taken to a diurnal schedule; it makes more sense that way. The sofa will suit me perfectly fine while you're sleeping, or there's the desk chair."

Crowley's not sure what she's supposed to say to any of that. She takes in the room instead. It's an open plan suite—with a separate room for the bathroom, at least, not that either of them needs it—but fairly standard otherwise, with a desk and a television and a very plush-looking sofa. A king bed dominates the space and looms over them, taking up space in the conversation.

If she were staying here alone, she would have already stripped down and put on the fluffy hotel robe, launched herself into bed, and started flipping channels in hopes of finding some good reality TV or maybe even a poorly-sourced historical documentary. She does none of these things.

"I'm gonna go—downstairs. Yeah. Get a drink, maybe. See if anyone I don't like is here yet—crowd like that, bound to run into someone." As Crowley babbles, she palms her room key and moves out of the room, away from the bed and everything it implies. She's almost to the door before she's finished.

"Oh! Do you want me to come with you?" Aziraphale asks brightly. A little too brightly, maybe, which Crowley absolutely cannot deal with right now. "That _is_ why I'm here, isn't it?"

Crowley shakes her head. "No! No, you… stay here, yeah? Enjoy the room. Order us something nice for dinner; I'll be back in a bit."

"But—"

"Okay, bye!" Crowley slams the door behind her, breathing hard and feeling like she's gotten away with something. Though, she knows that's not right. It's more like she's successfully run away from something, something that she'll have to face again as soon as she comes back up to the room. She growls, stalks down the hall, and slams the button for the elevator.

*

Downstairs, Crowley valiantly does not get drunk.

She instead prowls through the crowd, searching for trouble. It's mostly people she recognizes as being from the plant expo milling around, but there are also a few family groups, as well as a bridal party. She longs to pick fights and scramble room reservations—maybe then, she could take advantage of the situation—but in the end, she decides to conserve her energy and only causes a couple of suitcases to fall open in the middle of the lobby, unharmed except for the mysteriously undone zippers.

(One of the bridesmaids has a luridly pink sex toy in her bag that bounces across the floor, but that's not _Crowley's_ fault. And good on her, honestly.)

When she feels like she can be in the same room as Aziraphale and that blessed bed, she goes back upstairs. It's about an hour later, and Aziraphale is accepting the room service delivery.

"Crowley," Aziraphale says. Her smile wavers, but she plasters it back on. "What perfect timing! Do come back in."

Aziraphale gestures into the room, as if they're at the bookshop and not in a hotel room Crowley's renting. Crowley lets her do it and follows her in without comment.

It's… good, though, that Aziraphale feels awkward about it, too, right? If Aziraphale didn't—if the potential for intimacy didn't affect her at all, if she was happy to share a bed with Crowley because she felt none of the things that Crowley tries to keep from plaguing her on a daily basis, then that would be….

Well, it wouldn't be any different than their life now, honestly, and Crowley would rather be Aziraphale's friend than not have her at all. Still.

Aziraphale's ordered for them roast chicken and fries, and a rhubarb crumble for afters—comfort food, that Crowley knows she'll only pick at, but she sits on the very end of the bed and lets Aziraphale pass her a plate all the same. There are glasses of wine but not the bottle, which is probably for the best in their state of mind.

They eat together and manage to fall into an easy if slightly strained conversation. When Crowley decides she'd rather go to bed than face any more of this, she imagines silk pajamas, with long sleeves and long pants. Full coverage. Aziraphale blushes to see her in them anyway.

"Sleep well, my dear," Aziraphale says, once Crowley's gotten herself under the covers. She already has a book open on the sofa. "Will the reading light bother you terribly?"

"'Course not. Whatever you need." Crowley wriggles around, trying to get comfortable. It's the same size as the bed at her place, but it feels way too big for just her in a way that one never has, and the mattress is too soft. The pillows are too soft. She feels very exposed, too, being over here and pretending Aziraphale can't hear every rustle of the sheets. "Well, good night."

"Good night, Crowley." Aziraphale shifts her position and turns a page. Crowley realizes that she can hear every small movement from Aziraphale, too—every slight sound the angel might make, with the stillness of their room only otherwise disturbed by the hum of the air conditioner.

Crowley doesn't sleep a wink all night, but she manages to convince her corporation that it's for the best.

*

"So that side is all the big corporate vendors," Crowley says with a gesture at the trade show floor. "Hate that, don't ever go over there unless you have to. They've never got anything interesting, anyway. Sometimes you can tempt the sales reps into cutting you a deal, or cutting someone else a deal, but that's low-hanging fruit, isn't it? Mostly not worth the energy, and I can't be fucked to teach all these guys how to bargain properly."

Aziraphale nods dutifully and draws an X through the entire section on her map of the booths. "Completely understandable. What else?"

Crowley takes a long sip of her coffee, which contains six shots of espresso and an equal amount of mocha syrup. The barista's horror was _delicious_. With the caffeine moving through her system, she casts another eye over the floor, then takes Aziraphale's map from her hands. Their fingers touch; it's unbearable. She moves on.

"That's Aurora," she says, uncapping her own free pen and circling the rectangle that represents Aurora's booth. "Great exotic varieties, but don't let them convince you to feed their flytraps. And that one's Greg. He _will_ give you a spider plant baby for free, and you _will_ be stuck trying to pawn off the resulting spider plants to everyone in your building. And there's Liv, Nigel, Violet—yeah, really unfortunate name in this crowd, I know. Hang on, are you taking notes?"

Aziraphale pauses in her scribbling and looks guilty. "You seem to know a lot about these people. I didn't realize you would. I thought." She struggles with her words for a moment, then says, "It's important to you, yes?"

Crowley shrugs. She's never thought about it like that before. She likes plants, and she likes humans who know more about plants than she does, _and_ she likes being able to show up people who need to be taken down a peg. It's a win all around, really. Learning their names is just part of it.

"It's fine," she says to Aziraphale with a shrug, ignoring the knowing look Aziraphale gives her. She points at the diagram again. "Okay, look, now this is the important part. That's—"

"Hello, Toni," comes a sleazy male voice. Crowley snaps her head up and fixes him with a sneer that does absolutely nothing to deter him. "Come to embarrass yourself again, I see?"

"Hardly." Crowley keeps staring him down. He returns her look with a tight, insincere smile. "Aziraphale, I'd like you to meet Dennis. You know the one."

Aziraphale shoots her a quick, surprised look but, to her acting credit, manages to get her metaphorical feet under her in time to play along. "Of course, my dear. _Dennis_ —you weren't involved in that horrible anecdote I heard about, were you? Dreadful, that."

Dennis turns his smarmy look on Aziraphale, who holds her ground and doesn't break eye contact. His hair is coiffed into a perfect blond wave that he's obviously very vain about; Crowley longs to shave it off. "Who are you, then? Her bodyguard? Attack dog?"

At that, Crowley feels herself bristle. It's one thing to throw insults at her, but at Aziraphale, _how dare, how dare he?_ Aziraphale rests a hand on her arm, though, and that touch, warm and electric, grounds Crowley enough to keep her from lashing out. "She's my—"

"Girlfriend," Aziraphale cuts in smoothly. She raises an eyebrow at Dennis, just arch enough to dare him to make a homophobic scene about it. He doesn't.

Not that Crowley could do anything about it if he did, she thinks. Aziraphale's hand is still on her arm, and that single word reverberates in her mind, and they didn't talk about _any_ of this. She needs to get away, to think about what it means that Aziraphale could be so casual about it all. _Girlfriend_. Crowley wishes.

" _Lovely_ to meet you, but I'm afraid we have to go now," Aziraphale continues, steering Crowley away. "Perhaps we'll see you later?"

"Count on it," Dennis fires back.

As they leave, Crowley can't resist getting one last move in. She shoots him a smile that bares all her teeth, making sure they look extra sharp for the occasion.

"Oh, come on, you silly fiend," Aziraphale huffs, and Crowley lets herself be pulled away into the crowd.

Aziraphale drops her hold as soon as they're out of Dennis's sight. Crowley's not sure what she's supposed to say. Unconsciously, the arm Aziraphale was touching finds its way to wrapping around her body, and she rests her other hand on that spot, imagining she can still feel Aziraphale's warmth and light through her fingertips.

"That was…" she starts. "You were great. Really."

"Hardly," Aziraphale scoffs. She looks out over the people milling around. "We can do better, I think. Give me a few hours."

*

While Aziraphale goes off to do whatever recon she has planned, Crowley mingles with the crowd. She really does genuinely like most of these people, despite her commentary on them. They're weird, and knowledgeable, and kind to a fault, and all of it is because they're so wonderfully human. She's actively tried not to influence them too much—and has hardly even wanted to influence them, which is more than she can say for most people.

"Hey, guys." Crowley stops at Aurora's booth, where Mags is already hanging out while Aurora gets set up.

"Oh, hey," Aurora says, barely even looking up from unpacking their boxes of plants. They're on the young side for a human and, this year, have dyed their hair teal and cut it in a short, swoopy style.

Mags, like Crowley, is an enthusiast rather than a vendor and, also like Crowley, is wearing killer leather trousers. If Crowley remembers right, she's had four kids, which makes it even more impressive. "Looks like a great crowd this year," she chirps. "Except for—well, suppose there's always one, isn't there? Can't let that spoil the weekend, at any rate."

"Be nice if something happened to spoil his, though," Crowley remarks. She rests her hip against the table and stretches her legs out into the aisle. The leaning feels good after the restless night she had, and she tips her head back and closes her eyes for just a second, then opens them again when Mags answers her.

"Sure, I suppose. Won't come at my hands, though." She nudges Crowley. "I heard what your companion said to him, though. You're dating her? She's _cute_."

Mags wasn't even _there_. Crowley, internally, curses the convention rumor mill. She never should have come.

"Uh. Yeah," Crowley says, remembering in time that it won't be a good look on either of them if she denies it and runs away. And also, she doesn't want to deny it, even though it's not true. Even though saying it is makes her insides twist with longing and guilt. "It's sort of... new? Her name's... Angela."

Crowley winces at her own hesitation, but the other two don't seem to notice, or maybe they think she's having an uncharacteristic bout of shyness. It doesn't matter. She needs to _leave_.

"That's really cool!" Aurora says. They pause in unpacking stock and rest their elbows on the table. "I'm glad you found someone you like—dating is so hard! Did you meet her online?"

They met on a wall, over six thousand years ago, but Crowley can't exactly say that, even though she's now distracted by remembering the Eden sunlight in Aziraphale's hair.

"Nah." Crowley waves a hand vaguely in the air. "It was a work... thing." If she remembers right, the people here think she's some kind of corporate consultant, and she's never tried to disabuse them of that impression. "We've both quit the firm now, but we're still... she's still sticking with me for some reason."

Shrug. Disarming smile. _Don't let them see how that affects you, for Someone's sake._

"Well, if you like her, don't let her get away." Mags looks like she wants to give Crowley a reassuring pat on the arm. She probably would have, were Crowley not the prickly creature she is. Instead, Mags turns to Aurora. "So, you got anything new? The pelargonium you sold me last year is still doing brilliantly."

"Nah, nothing exciting. Well, I did start breeding these." Aurora pulls out a plant that's mostly green, spotted leaves. Pink flowers emerge from between the leaves in clusters. "Angel wing begonias. Not my usual, I know, but I wanted to try something different."

Crowley, who was thinking of making her escape now that the attention's off her, snaps to attention embarrassingly quickly. "Angel wing, you said?"

Aurora nods. "Yeah, you know about them? Because I've been looking for someone who does—"

"Don't know anything," Crowley says. She looks over the plant, which seems healthy enough for the time being, then returns to scanning the crowd. No flash of blonde curls and tartan skirt—that would have been too poetic. "I'll take it."

She catches the two of them exchanging looks but doesn't care, just hands over a probably appropriate amount of cash to Aurora and scoops up the begonia, cradling it in her arms. _Angel wing_. She's so stupid.

"Well, thanks for my first sale," Aurora says, locking up the cash. They fish a notebook out of one of their boxes and mark the sale down. "I gotta finish setting up. Catch you guys later?"

"Yeah, sure. Later." Just as well—Crowley feels restless and itchy, and she doesn't want to take it out on them. She waves to both of them and stalks off to see who else she can run into, coffee in one hand, potted plant in the other.

_Girlfriend. She's my girlfriend._

Crowley growls at the begonia. "Yeah, don't get any ideas about me going soft on you. Perk up those flowers a bit, will you?"

The begonia, trembling, obeys.

*

Later that afternoon, after Crowley's prowled the floor making life slightly worse for the corporate vendors and sprawled in the back of a panel called "The Point of Pruning"—and honestly, why is there even discourse over something so obvious, Crowley wonders—Aziraphale returns to her, looking mysteriously pleased.

"Got an idea," Aziraphale says. She looks around, furtive but clearly enjoying the subterfuge. "About—you know. Can't really talk about it here. Dinner?"

Crowley looks down at the angel wing begonia in her arms. It's been keeping her company all day, she realizes. Without Aziraphale there, she didn't even leave for lunch.

"'Course, yeah." She holds up the plant. "Gotta run to the room first."

It's been kind of a weird day. People have left her alone, for the most part—probably the _I'm a demon, fuck off_ energy she feels like she's been radiating since she took her begonia and set out on her own for the day. It keeps rattling around in her head, the idea that people think they're dating. The idea that Aziraphale would come up with that so smoothly and easily and say it as if it were true. As if there could be no question that she was telling the truth.

The thing is, Crowley thinks, it hasn't been long at all since their resignation from their respective sides. So far, their side hasn't been a lot different, except that now they have more free time to spend together, and Aziraphale doesn't look so nervous when they're out in public. And with Aziraphale more relaxed, Crowley's felt freer to let some of her coiled-up tension go, too.

And now Aziraphale wants to go out to dinner, just them, on the same day she may as well have announced their non-relationship to the world. But it's not a date, because very little in Crowley's life is that simple.

 _Is_ it a date?

Crowley drops the plant off in their room, where she also tries and fails to avoid looking at the bed. Then she makes a face at herself in the bathroom mirror, swaps her half-bun for a full one with a snap of her fingers, and switches it back again with another frown. She goes downstairs, and they go to dinner at an Italian restaurant near the hotel, and Crowley does her best to be normal while Aziraphale explains her plan.

"So," Aziraphale says, leaning in close. Crowley grips the edge of the table to keep herself from leaning in to meet her. The low, golden light of the room is particularly flattering on Aziraphale. She looks especially pleased with herself, and that's flattering, too. "I talked to some people today. About Dennis."

Frowning, Crowley says, "Who did you talk to?" She hasn't seen Aziraphale all day; she would have noticed her cozying up to other people, even in the middle of the crowded ballroom.

Aziraphale waves her off. "Dennis's friends. Doesn't matter. Anyway." A grin so wicked it should have looked wrong on Aziraphale—would have, if she were any other angel—spreads across her face. "I found out what our friend is deathly afraid of. You'll never guess."

Crowley raises an eyebrow, prompting her to continue.

"Snakes, my dear," Aziraphale says. She takes a sip of her wine to punctuate the statement while Crowley lets that sink in. "He's positively _terrified_ of snakes."

*

"Hey," Crowley says.

They're back in their room. Aziraphale has changed into some kind of tartan nightgown and curled up in the corner of the sofa with some kind of trashy romance novel. Every time Crowley tries to catch the title of it, Aziraphale huffs and manages to angle it away, so she knows it's gotta be either really good or really embarrassing. Maybe both.

Crowley stands by the bed, too restless to sit down. She doesn't actually care about the book right now. She cares about Aziraphale, alone on the sofa, and her, alone in the enormous bed. It's stupid. She's spent this long not jumping Aziraphale's bones; she can handle a little proximity, and to be honest, she could use it after the long day spent mostly alone. The begonia flaunts its spots accusingly at her from across the room.

Aziraphale hums and turns a page without looking up. "What is it?"

"I think, uh." The words try to get stuck in Crowley's throat, but she forces them out, or at least something like them. "I think you'd be comfier on the bed. It's gotta be better than a cheap hotel sofa."

"Oh, I couldn't put you out, though." Aziraphale looks up at her, beautiful forehead creased with confusion.

There's a longing in that expression, too, one that fans Crowley's flames and nearly makes her chicken out at the same time. She sternly orders her corporation to shape up.

"You wouldn't. Ngh, I mean." The growing look of comprehension and hope on Aziraphale's face spurs Crowley on. "It's a big bed. Lots of room for both of us, if you like. Oodles, really," she throws in, wincing at how earnest and desperate she must sound.

Aziraphale gives her a tentative smile, though, so she must like that, or maybe she's just used to it from Crowley. Hard to tell. "Oodles?"

"Shut up." Crowley can hear the answering smile in her own voice, can feel it tugging at the corners of her lips. She sits down on the bed. "Are you getting in or not?"

With another considering look, Aziraphale closes her book and nods once, decisive. "Yes. If you're—if you're sure it'll be all right."

She rises from the couch, and Crowley nearly swallows her own tongue to see Aziraphale walking toward her, shy and nervous. "Yeah. It'll be great, you'll see. Lots of room."

The thing is, Crowley was hoping to sway her, but she didn't think it would actually work. And what she imagined—the two of them side by side but safely cordoned off into their own sides, maybe with a wall of pillows between them to remove any temptation—is very different from the reality.

Aziraphale climbs in on the side of the bed Crowley's not sitting on, so Crowley gets in, too, and tries to pretend her useless heart isn't thudding in her chest. She can feel Aziraphale's body heat all along her right side once they're both under the covers; she looks over at Aziraphale's body encased in the white sheets and imagines she can feel that, too, the shape of Aziraphale's curves against every part of her. She thinks again about erecting the pillow wall.

 _Girlfriend_ , her traitorous mind echoes.

"You don't mind if I stay up and read for a bit, do you?" Aziraphale's already propping herself up and resuming her place in the book. Crowley just manages to catch the title— _The Demon Duchess_ —and raises a considering eyebrow. She was a duchess once, or near as.

Then Aziraphale wiggles to get comfortable, a wiggle Crowley can _feel_ , and she almost forgets both Aziraphale's novel and her question entirely.

"Huh? Nah, that's fine. Won't bother me at all. Happy for you." Crowley's aware she's babbling, and aware of Aziraphale's bemused look, but the words keep spilling out. She turns onto her other side so she doesn't have to look at Aziraphale and ends with a hurried, "Well, goodnight!"

Softly, she hears Aziraphale answer, "Goodnight, my dear. Sleep well."

Crowley wraps her arms around a pillow, and screams silently into it until she feels better. She's sure she won't be able to sleep after all with Aziraphale so near, but despite herself, she drifts off moments later to the sound of Aziraphale turning pages.

*

Sunday morning of the convention dawns bright, early, and warm.

Too warm. Much warmer than it should be.

Crowley blinks awake, clinging to her pillow. It seems… firmer than it was when she went to sleep. A pit of dread yawns open in her general stomach region, and she forces herself to wake up the rest of the way.

"Oh," Aziraphale says from above her, where she's sitting up against the headboard. Her eyelashes flutter as she stares down at Crowley. It's stupidly attractive. "You're awake. Er—good morning."

"Uh." Crowley's arms, she realizes now, are wrapped around Aziraphale's round, plush thigh. Her head is resting on the mattress, all the pillows discarded when she apparently scooted down to inflict herself on Aziraphale, and her face is pressed into the flannel of Aziraphale's nightgown.

Only… Aziraphale doesn't look like Crowley's inflicting herself on her. She looks… embarrassed, yes, but there's a faint blush brushing her cheeks. There's that look on her face she gets sometimes, when Crowley does things for her and Aziraphale tries to pretend she doesn't like it. Crowley's not sure what that's supposed to mean in this context.

She sits up.

"Uh," Crowley says again. She scrubs a hand over her face, then through her hair, shaking it out until it falls in perfect waves and is not at all sleep-rumpled from cuddling up to Aziraphale all night. "I—" She closes her mouth, tries again. "How was your book?"

"Oh! I finished it." When Crowley chances a look back at her, Aziraphale's eyes are wide, and she doesn't know what that means, either. Other than self-consciousness over Crowley asking her about _The Demon Duchess_ , that is. "It was—it was very enlightening."

"Huh. Well. Good for you." Crowley doesn't know what she's doing. Getting out of that bed—the bed she shared with Aziraphale, the bed she _invited_ Aziraphale to share with her—is a start. She stands up and waves a hand over herself to throw on her usual clothes. "Let's go downstairs."

Aziraphale furrows her brow. "It's seven a.m. The convention floor doesn't open until ten."

"Breakfast, then," Crowley says impatiently. She feels like pacing; she doesn't think she can stay in this room a minute longer, not with Aziraphale still sitting on their rumpled bed. "Let's go."

Aziraphale glances away from her, cheeks flushed. She doesn't say anything for a moment and seems to be trying to process the position they've found themselves in: her, with the sheets draped artfully around her naked legs like she's in a painting, and Crowley, probably showing all of the anxiety she's trying to keep herself from feeling. She never has been good at hiding much from Aziraphale.

"Of course." Aziraphale offers her a weak half-smile. "Let me just—get ready."

So Crowley waits in the hallway while Aziraphale goes and gets dressed like a person (and if some pacing is involved on Crowley's part, well, no one's there to call her out on it), and they go downstairs.

Aziraphale, to no one's surprise, loves free breakfasts in hotels regardless of quality; Crowley skips the food in favor of filling a mug with black coffee and going to brood at a table in the corner of the seating area. She growls at one of the bridesmaids, who tries to claim it before she can get there, then amuses herself by scrambling the signal on the TV, which is showing some bullshit morning talk show.

"So," Aziraphale says when she comes over. She takes a delicate bite of her eggs; Crowley glances away from her and downs the rest of her coffee, ignoring how it should scald her throat, and snaps her fingers to refill it. "I thought we should go over the plan."

They aren't talking about it, just like they aren't talking about everyone here thinking they're a couple. That's fine. Crowley's _fine_. She shrugs. "What's there to talk about? We show up, I turn into a snake. If you feel like it, you can act very scared and see if anyone comes to your rescue."

Aziraphale looks put out by that waspish remark, which Crowley already regrets, but she shrugs it off in favor of sipping her coffee. "Point is, don't think about it. It'll work." She softens and tries to let go of some of her tension. "It's a good plan, angel."

"Well. If you say so," Aziraphale says. A tiny smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. She eats one of her sausages, then offers the plate to Crowley. "Eggs?"

Crowley considers the fried eggs, then Aziraphale's hopeful face, and summons another fork so she doesn't have to deal with the implications of using Aziraphale's. "Yeah, okay."

*

A few hours later, they're milling around in the ballroom with the rest of the trade show crowd. Crowley spots her target from across the room and edges closer, but not so much so that he'll spot her. Dennis is mouthing off about his obviously superior knowledge on some kind of ivy to a small group of people, who appear to be hanging on his every word but on closer look, are nodding politely in between exchanging exhausted glances with each other.

"You don't have to do this, my dear," Aziraphale murmurs, suddenly at her elbow. Crowley doesn't jump—she smelled Aziraphale half a second before she spoke—but it's a near thing. "He's awful, but when it comes down to it, he's just a human, and not even one with much influence. Plenty of those around."

Crowley hesitates. She knows Aziraphale's right. She doesn't _have_ to, and she's not even sure it'll be fun. But then she thinks about her weird plant friends, and she thinks about all the blessings she's done in Aziraphale's stead and how there's not much on either the blessing or the tempting end from them these days. If she can make things a little better in this tiny way and embarrass someone who really deserves it in the process, shouldn't she?

"No, I want to," Crowley says. "It'll be great." She takes a deep breath and concentrates, making sure no one's watching her, and then she's a snake, easy as anything.

It's different, being a snake in a hotel ballroom. Crowley's never tried it before. She flicks out her tongue and scents the room—musty carpet that her scales slide along easily, the rubber soles of people's shoes, and the natural earth and oxygen smells generated from all the plants in the room.

Being a snake, with this form much lower to the ground, makes it more difficult to remember where Dennis is. She's also opted not to be a particularly large snake, so she has to avoid getting stepped on by people who aren't expecting to look out for a snake on the ground, but eventually, she finds him.

Distastefully, she slides over his expensive leather shoes and stays there long enough to be felt. Crowley feels Dennis tense up the moment he looks down and spots her. "What the— _snake_!"

The worst part, Crowley thinks, is what she has to do next. She steels herself for it, then hisses menacingly and slithers directly up Dennis's khaki trouser leg, coiling tightly around his leg.

"Hey!" Dennis shakes his leg, trying to get rid of her, but Crowley holds tight. "Security! Someone let a fucking _deadly snake_ in here and it's attacking me!"

Crowley thinks about biting him. She resists—it's better to just hiss and keep moving around in the most threatening way she can think of, like she _might_ bite him at any second but is just biding her time.

From where she's encased in khaki fabric, she can hear hushed crowd noises and two sets of approaching footsteps—Aziraphale's, from the scent of her, and probably someone involved with the hotel.

"What seems to be the problem?" the unfamiliar voice says.

"This place is going down, that's the problem!" Dennis shouts. Crowley manages to keep her hold as he turns to address the general area around him. "There's a red-bellied black snake up my trousers, and whoever's responsible for it is going to pay, and this convention _and_ this hotel. You're _all_ going to pay for threatening my life like this!"

"Dear me," Crowley hears Aziraphale say. "You are in a bit of a mess, aren't you?"

"Did you do this, then?" Dennis demands.

"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly have," Aziraphale says, placid as anything. "I've been here the whole time. I do know a bit about snake handling, though. I'll just—get her to come out. If that's amenable?"

Dennis shakes his leg again, violently, trying to dislodge Crowley. She can feel the tension radiating through him, then the jerky acceptance in his spine. "Fine."

Aziraphale kneels calmly on the floor and slips a cautious hand up the ankle of Dennis's trousers, and this is the very best part, the crowning glory of their scheme. Crowley thinks very hard about being not the Serpent of Eden and instead, a harmless grass snake. When she thinks she's got it, she lets go and slithers placidly out of Dennis's trouser leg, right into Aziraphale's waiting hands.

"You see?" Aziraphale says. Her hands are warm and firm on Crowley's scales. "She wouldn't hurt you at all, really. Gentle as anything when you show them just a little bit of kindness."

From her new vantage point, Crowley can see that Dennis looks both rattled and apoplectic. "No, that was—someone's playing a trick on me!"

The hotel staffer glances at him, then turns to Aziraphale. "If that's not your snake, I'm happy to take it outside for you."

Aziraphale nods, and Crowley allows herself to be moved—this was part of their plan, too, if it came to it.

"Terribly sorry for all the trouble, but I'm afraid you were mistaken about the color," the staffer says to Dennis. "This is a grass snake, and a terrified one at that." Crowley lets herself relax into the staffer's hand for emphasis, then flicks her tongue at Dennis. "Won't hurt you at all—I'll just pop it back outside, shall I?"

"You'll pay!" Dennis insists again. "Someone here did something! You'll all pay!"

He storms out past the three of them, through the crowd, and out of the ballroom entirely. Crowley feels the entire crowd gives a collective sigh of relief and returns to whatever they were doing before the incident, some muttering a bit.

"Well, that was a thing." The staffer, whose name Crowley can now see on her name tag is Marie, gently strokes Crowley's head with one finger. Crowley doesn't lean into it—she has standards, too—but she doesn't move away, either. "Shall we go back where you belong, then?"

Crowley has a few other thoughts about where she belongs, and it's not in the overwatered grass outside the hotel. Still, she plays her part and allows Marie to relocate her near the bushes, where Aziraphale finds her a moment later.

"You did marvelously." Aziraphale's hands are flitting everywhere in front of her for some reason Crowley can't make herself realize—like Aziraphale's in want of something to do with them but is holding herself back. "And marvelous of her, too, keeping her cool."

"Yeah, I just hope it worked," Crowley says, brushing grass off her jacket.

"Oh," Aziraphale says. She gives Crowley the doe-eyed look that means she's trying to pretend she's innocent. "I wouldn't worry about that. I don't think he'll be coming back. Certainly not this year—he's made some personality choices in his life that I think he now rather regrets and will be spending some time considering before he returns."

Crowley sucks a breath in. That Aziraphale would go to all that trouble, just to appease her pettiness—

"I'd say that's pretty _marvelous_ news, too." She drawls the word out, making Aziraphale frown prettily at her even as she blushes from Crowley's acknowledgment. "Come on, angel. Let's go back in, hmmm?"

*

"I still can't believe that happened," Greg says, a few hours later. "I mean, how did a snake like that get in anyway?"

He shudders dramatically. Crowley takes another long sip of her wine and nods along. From across the table, Aziraphale flashes her a secret smile and nudges Crowley's shin with the rounded toe of her shoe.

After the whole snake theatrics, the two of them returned to the convention. Aziraphale stuck by her the whole day, chatted with her friends, and even sat in with her on the class called Developing a Beneficial Habitat. It was a lot more fun with Aziraphale there to trade nudges with when the presenters got way too enthusiastic about their topic, even if she did feel a little called out by some of the knowing looks Aziraphale gave her.

Crowley also bought a succulent from Greg, plus the free spider plant he practically shoved in her arms. She hasn't told Aziraphale they're for her yet.

Now they're sitting in the hotel bar, where Crowley's lot have taken over two tables for post-convention drinks and gossip. When they spotted Crowley and Aziraphale across the lobby, the two of them got dragged over, and then Crowley fell into a heated discussion of proper soil nitrate levels before the conversation turned to her little stunt. Not that any of them can know it was her, of course.

"And who knew Dennis would act like that? I mean, I thought he wanted to kill the snake!" Violet exclaims. Her face goes forlorn as she contemplates the glass in front of her. "Poor little snake."

Mags waves her off. "Snake's fine. Toni and Angela saw them carry it out after all the dramatics, right?"

"Uh—definitely." Crowley tries to keep a straight face, which is not exactly easy when she has Aziraphale nudging her again. "I definitely, one hundred percent saw that happen. Yup. Snake's fine."

"You see?" Mags says to the others. "The snake's _fine_. Dennis is just a big, rude baby."

There's a chorus of nods. Aurora picks up their glass and frowns at its emptiness. "Well, whatever happened, I'm glad to see that guy shown up for once. Thanks partly to Angela here, of course." She nods at Aziraphale, who nods back and probably would have dropped a curtsy if she'd been standing.

"It was nothing," Aziraphale insists, while blushing in Crowley's direction. And it is directed at her—Crowley's sure of it. "I was just glad to be of some use."

"I'd drink to that, but I'm dry, too," Nigel says. "Should we get another round?"

Greg downs the rest of the beer he's been nursing. "Sounds brilliant. Toni, you in?"

Aziraphale stands. "Actually," she says, "I'm afraid I've got to steal your compatriot away. We have a bit of an early start in the morning. Lovely to meet and chat with you all."

She gives them a jaunty little wave and walks away, leaving Crowley to follow her.

"You heard her," Crowley says with her own awkward wave, to a wave of _ooohs_ and laughter from the table. "See you guys next year. Good luck with things and all."

"Have fun! " Aurora calls out, to another round of giggling. Right, they still think Aziraphale's her girlfriend, and they're going to—they're—

They're _not_. Are they?

Crowley finishes the rest of her wine and Aziraphale's in two swallows, then runs off to the elevator, where Aziraphale's waiting for her.

*

The elevator ride is uneventful. Crowley can't account for her jitters and fidgeting. It's not like anything is going to _happen_. They're going to go upstairs, put on their pajamas, and sedately and platonically go to bed together—that's _it_.

But Aziraphale is flushed far beyond where the wine should have gotten her and keeps sneaking glances at Crowley—a flit of eyes in her direction, then at her own hands twisting together in front of her, then back again. Crowley tracks every single one, all the way up to the top floor.

"Crowley," Aziraphale says, once they're outside their room. "Crowley, we don't—"

"Stop." Crowley holds up the hand not holding the room key. She feels heady and brave, but also very old, and she has the sinking suspicion that if one of them doesn't take a step forward right now, when they're closer than they've ever been, then they'll never get there. "Let's go inside, yeah?"

She unlocks the door. Then she's standing in front of Aziraphale, and there's nothing keeping them apart anymore except their own stupid insecurities.

"I bought you a plant." Crowley frowns—that's not how she meant to start. She runs with it anyway. "The succulent. That's for you, for the shop."

"Oh." Aziraphale looks thrown by this new conversation track. "You know I don't know the first thing about all of that."

"That's not the point. I'll help you. The point is—" Crowley reaches out and covers Aziraphale's hands, trembling in front of her, with both of hers. Aziraphale draws in a breath and goes very, very still. "I'm in love with you. That's what I've been trying to say. That's why I _brought_ you here." She shakes her head. "At the core, it was never about anything else. I just didn't want to go without you."

In response, Aziraphale stands on her tiptoes and kisses her.

Crowley savors that kiss—the firm, determined press of Aziraphale's mouth against hers; the shy sweep of Aziraphale's tongue on her lips; the easy way Aziraphale opens up for her, just as willingly as Crowley does for her. They're still holding hands in the center of it all; Crowley releases the hold so she can pull Aziraphale closer and kiss her again.

"Should we?" Aziraphale throws a fleeting look over her shoulder at the bed, then turns back to Crowley with a hopeful eyebrow raise.

"Yes," Crowley says. She throws her sunglasses in the general direction of the bedside table and leans down to slide her mouth against Aziraphale's again. All this newness between them is intoxicating and terrifying, every kiss a discovery that leaves her feeling dazed and clingy. She doesn't want to fuck it up. "Yes. A hundred percent. A hundred and _ten_ percent."

Aziraphale smiles and leads her toward the bed they're sharing. "Come to bed with me, Crowley."

It feels like hours go by while they get undressed, kissing and touching all the while. Maybe they do—Crowley's certainly not checking the time. She's too focused on teasing Aziraphale: a graze to her neck when she removes Aziraphale's bow tie, the slide of her hands sweeping down Aziraphale's sides just before she undoes the buttons of Aziraphale's waistcoat. Her hands, fumbling at the button and zipper of Aziraphale's tartan skirt.

Then Aziraphale's down to her skivvies, practical beige satin and white cotton. Crowley doesn't wear underwear, but after seeing how unfairly good Aziraphale looks in hers, she thinks she might start, just for her. Still….

"Get these off." Crowley tugs at the straps of Aziraphale's bra. The clasp is somewhere underneath Aziraphale; she tries to fumble for it but ends up just copping a feel instead, and then crushing her hands underneath Aziraphale's back when she gives up and presses her down into the mattress so she can mouth at the bare skin she can get to instead, all that lovely expanse of Aziraphale's clavicles and the tops of her breasts.

Aziraphale's spent the last few centuries so buttoned up, Crowley wasn't sure she'd ever even get to see her clavicles again. Let alone touch them, let alone suck on the skin pulled taut over rounded bone until there's a mark in the shape of Crowley's lips left there.

"Darling, that's not fair," Aziraphale protests through her panting. _Darling_ —that's a new one. "You're still dressed. Let me see you."

Crowley stops kissing her and pulls back. "Uh. Yeah. Okay."

She's been so focused on Aziraphale, she hasn't been thinking about how she'll have to shed her own clothes. It's nothing Aziraphale hasn't seen before over the centuries, but now that they've fallen into bed, it's different, revealing her bony hips and barely there breasts and knowing that's all she has to offer Aziraphale. She's always been out of Crowley's league.

Fair is fair, though, and Crowley strips off her silk blouse and ultra-skinny jeans until it's just her, laid bare in front of Aziraphale. She swallows nervously.

"Oh," Aziraphale says, and then Crowley doesn't know what's happening for a moment because Aziraphale is flipping her onto her back and descending on her, hands everywhere and mouth taking one of Crowley's peaked nipples into her mouth, no preamble at all. Crowley hears herself let out a whine.

"Oh, Crowley. You're beautiful. I never dared think—well, anyway." Aziraphale closes her eyes and sucks hard on Crowley's nipple, then the other, her hands coming to rest on Crowley's waist.

"You don't mind?" Crowley blurts out.

Aziraphale pulls back with a pop and tilts her head. "Mind what?"

Crowley feels stupid for asking now. She gestures down her body anyway, trying to encompass the whole bony, snakey mess of it. Aziraphale looks shocked.

" _Mind_? You're perfect. Absolutely magnificent. I've wanted you for—oh, far longer than I care to admit." Aziraphale leans over and kisses her once on the lips, reassuring. "I'm quite in love with you, too, you know."

Crowley didn't know. Or, well, she's known for a while, but in an observational way that meant she could never bring it up with Aziraphale. She's never heard the words from Aziraphale's lips. She's never said them to Aziraphale before tonight.

"I love you," she murmurs, just because she's allowed to. Just for the release of finally being able to. She pulls Aziraphale down, flush on top of her, and rubs against all those lovely curves. "I love you. Let's do this."

"And you don't, ah—" Aziraphale pulls back with a self-deprecating smile and waves a hand over herself to indicate her own plush, gorgeous body. Crowley silently curses at herself—she should have remembered how contagious insecurity is.

"I could never. I love the way you look. I want to lick every little part of you," Crowley insists. She starts pulling at Aziraphale's bra again. "And if you don't get naked in the next three seconds, I think I might discorporate, so _please_ , angel."

One second, there's fabric keeping Aziraphale from her; the next second, it's gone with a whisper of a miracle, and Crowley's surrounded entirely by Aziraphale. "Well. Go ahead, then."

They go very fast from there.

Crowley means to take her time—means to worship and adore Aziraphale the way she deserves, means to keep her in bed for _days_ until they're completely glutted on each other. But there's so much she wants to do with Aziraphale, and Aziraphale keeps urging her on with little moans and gasps that go straight to Crowley's cunt. Almost before she knows it, she's easing Aziraphale's legs over her shoulders and bending over to drag her tongue along Aziraphale's slit.

" _Ah_ —it's good." Aziraphale scrabbles on the mattress for a handhold.

Crowley laughs, very close to where she'll be putting her mouth in a moment. "Barely started. Gimme a minute."

But Crowley's never eaten anyone out before, other than herself once or twice when she didn't feel like having vertebrae but did feel like being adventurous. She's only ever wanted to be with one person like this, and now she's got her. It's gratifying to learn that Aziraphale's an appreciative and enthusiastic bed partner as well as the love of her life.

She parts Aziraphale's lips with the point of her tongue and draws the fluid she finds there up to Aziraphale's clit. Aziraphale's already so wet from everything they've been doing, so slick and musky under her tongue, and getting more so the more Crowley licks at her. Crowley savors the taste and the knowledge that _she's_ the one to turn Aziraphale on like this; as she starts to work Aziraphale over, she feels arousal spreading between her own legs.

Above her, Aziraphale's breath comes in hot, quick pants. She has one hand gripped in the sheets; the other falls heavy on Crowley's head, tangling in her hair. Crowley wraps her mouth around Aziraphale's clit and suckles at her there, and Aziraphale lets out a moan and _pulls_ , a sharp sting of pain on Crowley's scalp that makes her whine against Aziraphale and causes a hot flood of arousal through her nethers.

She didn't know she liked that. She pulls off and stares at Aziraphale, who's already murmuring an apology and withdrawing her hand, and snatches Aziraphale's hand out of the air.

"You can—yeah." Crowley rests Aziraphale's hand back in her hair, leans into the touch to prove how welcome it is. "'S good."

"I don't want to hurt you," Aziraphale protests, already working her fingers back through to scritch her nails against Crowley's skin, and fuck, that's really good. She'll have to tempt Aziraphale into giving her a scalp massage later.

Crowley squeezes her legs shut when Aziraphale tugs lightly on her hair, feeling way too desperate for someone who's barely been touched. "You won't. I liked it. Feels good."

Aziraphale lets out a satisfied sound and guides Crowley's head back between her legs, where Crowley gets back to the really important work of getting her off. Experimentally, Crowley slides two fingers inside Aziraphale, where everything is molten hot and smells like her angel. Aziraphale's fingers tighten encouragingly in her hair, so she does it again, sliding them in and out while she puts her mouth back to the task of licking and sucking her until Aziraphale is shaking and quivering with need.

"Please, please, darling." Aziraphale tugs on her hair, and Crowley sucks hard on Aziraphale's clit, and then Aziraphale lets out a high moan as she quakes apart, quivering and shaking under Crowley's touch. Her hold on Crowley tightens and releases, until she's just loosely petting Crowley as she comes down. Crowley withdraws her fingers and kisses those plump thighs, still disbelieving that Aziraphale's allowing this, that she wants her here. That Aziraphale's in _love_ with her.

When Aziraphale's breathing has slowed back to its usual rate, Crowley feels a tap on her shoulder and looks up. Aziraphale has a wicked, flirty smile on her face. "Your turn." Crowley grins and scrambles up the bed.

They swap positions so that Crowley's on her back and Aziraphale's crouched over her. She's so worked up and overwhelmed, so absolutely fucking drenched, that Aziraphale barely has to touch her before she comes, sweet and shivery, on Aziraphale's tongue.

"Sorry—" Crowley starts to say, but then she shuts up because Aziraphale's not stopping. Aziraphale just hums against her and keeps working her over, gentle with Crowley's oversensitive clit and harder where she needs the friction, until Crowley feels herself falling off the edge again, thrusting her hips up into Aziraphale's face and clinging to her desperately as her whole body shakes with it.

Crowley drifts back to the land of consciousness when Aziraphale climbs up the bed. The mattress dips with Aziraphale's weight practically on top of her. She chances a look at Aziraphale, who is bright-eyed and sated, and whose lower face is positively _soaked_ with her arousal. That happened—Aziraphale went down on her. She went down on _Aziraphale_.

"You've got—" Crowley reaches across the few inches between them and swipes her thumb across Aziraphale's chin.

The mess only smears more under her touch, but Aziraphale's eyes darken with pleasure. "You have, too. Wasn't going to mention it, but since you did…."

She has; she can feel Aziraphale's fluids on her face, starting to dry unpleasantly. Aziraphale licks her thumb and comes at her with it, and Crowley wriggles away, hearing herself let out an undignified giggle.

"Fuck _off_ ," she yelps, even as she does absolutely nothing to get away from Aziraphale, who pins her down with a lot of giggling and uncoordination of her own and kisses all over Crowley's face. The kisses soon slow to just their mouths on each other's, and then to Aziraphale pulling back and draping herself over Crowley, her head pillowed on Crowley's chest.

Crowley looks down at her and decides to leave off questioning things for the night. She snaps her fingers to clean them up and turn out the lights. Then, beneath the covers, she wraps her arms tighter around Aziraphale.

*

The next morning finds them curled up together in the center of the bed, naked, warm, and completely intertwined. Crowley stretches, sighs, and buries her face in the wonderful curves of Aziraphale's breast, and she doesn't have to feel embarrassed about any of it because Aziraphale's right there, sliding a protective arm down her back and kissing the top of her head as she pulls Crowley even closer.

They miss breakfast in favor of dozing there together, skin on skin, quietly soaking up each other's company and reveling in the new place they've gotten to. They almost miss checkout, except that Aziraphale glances at the alarm clock around mid-morning, says "oh good lord," and hustles them out the door.

They're downstairs, dressed with luggage in tow, with time to spare. Crowley deals with the hotel clerk. In the middle of her flashing her black card around, she feels fingers brushing hers. She looks down to see Aziraphale taking her hand, right there in the middle of the lobby. Aziraphale smiles at her, a little sheepish.

"Just getting used to it," Aziraphale explains, blushing.

They don't stop for brunch; Crowley asks, but Aziraphale says she'd rather just go home to their familiar haunts and eat there if they felt so inclined, so they load up the Bentley and set off on the short drive back to London.

The begonia and the succulent sit together on one side of the backseat, the pots kissing. The spider plant, relegated to the other side, appears to be pouting.

"I just need to know one thing," Crowley says once they're fully on their way. "Why'd you do it? Why'd you say we were—you know." She waves the hand she's not using to drive. "Dating."

Aziraphale bites her lip. Crowley keeps half an eye on the road but mostly watches Aziraphale. This is the one thing still niggling at her, the one thing that still doesn't make sense about the whole strange weekend.

"I suppose it was a lot of wishful thinking," Aziraphale says at last. She folds her hands in her lap; Crowley thinks she's going to look away for this conversation, but she meets Crowley's eyes, and hers are so brave and beautiful. "And you were being shown up—no, _don't_ scowl at me like that—and a part of me wanted to lay claim to you, I suppose. Protect you. It just slipped out."

Crowley turns that over in her head. She's not sure what to do with all of that, and where they go from here, but Aziraphale's not done.

"I don't regret where it's gotten us, though," Aziraphale continues, her tone firm. "I—I hope you don't, either. Wouldn't blame you if you did, really—they say dishonesty's no way to begin a relationship, but—for our sake, I hope not."

Aziraphale offers her a weak smile. Crowley scowls and pulls over on the side of the motorway, parks the Bentley, and takes both of Aziraphale's hands.

"I could never regret this," Crowley says fervently. "I could never regret you. I never have. And it's not exactly the beginning for us, is it?"

Aziraphale's expression moves into something fond and awfully sappy, and she squeezes Crowley's fingers, interlocked with hers.

"Also," Crowley adds, "lying to humans is a good look on you."

The perfect, rounded O of shock on Aziraphale's face is worth ruining the moment. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"It is!" Crowley insists. "You get that canny little twinkle in your eyes, because you know you're getting one over on them, _and_ you know none of them are going to call you out on it. It's cute."

"Hmmmm." Aziraphale gives her the Ritz smile, the our-side smile, the shy promise of a new future together. "I suppose, if I must, I can live with cute."

"Brilliant," Crowley says immediately. "Gorgeous, clever, absolute _bastard_ of an angel—"

Aziraphale slides her mouth against Crowley's and presses in, right there on the side of the road, and, Crowley realizes, the moment's not ruined at all.

"Are you still going to go with me to the book fair?" Aziraphale asks. "Because, you know, the people, my dear. And we can stay in another lovely little hotel...."

"Angel" Crowley grins and pecks her on the lips again. "I'll go anywhere at all with you."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! You can find me on Tumblr as [@waterofthemoon](https://waterofthemoon.tumblr.com).


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